"Cryosphere"

- Cryosphere refers to any portion of the Earth's surface where water is in solid form, including glaciers, ice caps, ice sheets, sea ice, snow cover, frozen rivers, lakes, and permafrost. The Cryosphere is closely linked to the Hydrosphere and plays a crucial role in the ecosystem and our everyday lives. - I've chosen the name because Cryosphere encompasses a wide range of ice around the world. This blog is meant to chronicle not all glaciers, but those that I experience and photograph in my travels. My vision is to visit and write about as many glaciers and other ice forms as possible while I pursue knowledge and share experiences of a beautiful world of ice. I hope you enjoy the photographs and follow along as I go!

21 July 2017

Fog settled across us like
a blanket dropped over our heads. We slowed our pace and stayed close, but Joe
was still little more than a shadow six feet behind me. Even my boots began to
lose detail to the mist. I could have never imagined a fog so thick. We were
already wet from the constant drizzle of rain, but the moisture of the fog
seemed to carry extra weight as we walked, long since losing any sign of a
trail. I glanced down at my phone's screen, which had been tracking our
movements through GPS. Oh, look, we're heading the wrong way. Again.

No wonder so many people
get lost when visibility drops away. As we made another 180 degree turn the
thought occurred to me that without this tiny, fragile, battery operated
device, we would likely wander through this fog for hours trying to regain a
trail back to the backcountry hut where our sleeping bags were waiting. We were
nearly two miles from the hut through steep, Alaskan terrain, and from the hut
it was over 9 miles to our exit trailhead. We weren't expected at the trailhead
until the next evening, so getting truly lost would mean a long night in the
cold if the fog failed to lift. Getting hurt would mean two long nights before
anyone even started looking for us. I focused on keeping the phone safe and dry,
only taking it out of my zipped pocket while standing on flat ground.

As we walked along,
suddenly the fog ahead of me darkened - oddly. My eyes couldn't perceive the
cliff above me until I could nearly reach out and touch it. Damn. We
deliberated briefly about which direction to walk along the cliff face, and
decided to go uphill and try to get on top. We picked our way around smaller
ledges and finally got above to more manageable terrain, heading in our desired
northwest direction once again. Of course, even that was a shot in the dark at
this point. We were looking for a glacier in the fog on a 1980 USGS map (the
last time Alaska was mapped). The Mint Glacier is now a sliver of it's
former self, and we had no idea where that sliver currently lay inside it's
latest mapped boundaries. We had seen the glacier from a thousand feet higher
and two miles away at the pass, so we knew it was here somewhere. Now, we had
no idea where we were, let alone the glacier. But it was
getting late, and we agreed if we didn't find it soon we would turn back, maybe
trying again tomorrow if the clouds cleared. Luckily soon is a
very vague time frame, and we wandered for at least another hour before the fog
ahead seemed to brighten just a bit, as though it would clear up any second and
let in some late evening twilight. But it didn't clear; it stayed just as thick
as before. However, the ground downhill from us began to glow in an odd way as
well. We were only 15 feet from solid ice before we realized the glow was from
the ice of the Mint Glacier, still somehow reflecting an incredible amount of
light through the thick dark fog. It was absolutely radiating in the relative
darkness of the evening twilight.

Walking through the fog on the Mint Glacier

As we trekked across the
ice, it seemed that the glacier itself was giving off the only remaining light
that night. The fog began lifting almost as soon as we stepped onto the ice, as
if it had given a great effort to conceal the glacier from us and was now
relaxing, having lost to our stubbornness. It refused to give up entirely
though, keeping close and glowing above the white ice as we explored the gentle
slope and often rocky surface of the glacier. Boulders would materialize out of
the fog in front of us and dissolve into the mist as we walked away. There was
a strange, ethereal feeling of mystery to the entire night, but that was only a
few hours of our three day traverse, every minute seemingly full of adventure
as we walked through postcard views, over four glaciers, and slept inside backcountry
huts placed throughout the area.

Joe and I had met about a
month before, when he and three friends came on one of MICA's ice climbing
tours on the Matanuska Glacier. While I was out photographing the group, Joe
mentioned he was living in Anchorage for the summer, and looking for ideas of
other glaciers he could go and explore, asking many questions about glacier
travel and safety throughout the day. I gave him a list of a few I had been to,
and mentioned I had similar goals to see as many as possible, so we exchanged info.
A month later we both had some time off, so when I mentioned the Bomber
Traverse, hiking over at least two glaciers in the Hatcher Pass area, Joe was
more than happy to tag along. We decided two wasn't enough, though, and figured
by the maps we could get to at least 3, if not 4 or 5 glaciers in a 3-day span.
With each of us driving in, we would have two vehicles making for an easy
shuttle between the Reed Lakes and Gold Mint Trailheads. Joe stayed out late
fishing the day before, and started his drive from Soldotna at four a.m. to
make it to our 8:30 planned meeting at the Gold Mint Trailhead. We left my
truck there and took Joe's car to Reed Lakes in a light drizzle just below a
dense fog. The forecast had called for steady rain that morning, clearing to
two beautiful days ahead. As we started the hike, we quickly realized we would
not need the rain jackets just yet, and the fog layer seemed to rise as we
ascended the steep trail toward Snowbird Pass.

Scrambling up toward Snowbird Pass

We passed a number of
abandoned mining buildings and other various artifacts left by miners at the
Snowbird Mine, one of several mineshafts of the historic Independence Mine. Remnants
of the mining operations, halted in 1951, appear all around the Talkeetna
Mountains with leftover pieces of machinery, ore carts, buildings and plenty of
trash. The main “town,” or Independence Mine State Historical Site, is just a
short drive from the Reed Lakes Trail, now a large tourism draw and perhaps one
of the main reasons people still visit the Hatcher Pass area. At its peak in
1941, the summit of Hatcher Pass was home to over 200 people year round, with
wood tunnels connecting buildings to shelter residents from the harsh Alaskan
weather.

Remnants of operations near the Snowbird mine

Continuing up the steep
trail, we pass above Lower Reed Lake. I recall a story of a former MICA guide
hiking the trail to Reed Lakes, finding the fresh mountain stream water to be
refreshing and delicious. Further up the trail, a beaver dam came into view,
and he began to question his decision to drink from the stream. Sure enough, he
would come down with the old Beaver Fever (Giardia) a few days later and be
incapacitated for days.

Joe and I continue on,
finally topping out on Snowbird Pass 4 miles and 2,800 vertical feet from our
starting point. The view is spectacular. Massive jagged peaks stretch out to
the horizon, many covered with snow and blue ice of hanging glaciers. Below us
stretches the Snowbird Glacier. It is a dirty, silty glacier, but the setting
among steep rocky cliffs more than makes up for the grayish tone of the ice.
Something about it seems off. I can't quite place it, but I have a rather
somber feeling mixed in with the excitement of exploring one more glacier. It's
almost like visiting an elderly relative in a hospital - when you're happy to
see them, but there's a thought that it might be the last time. I feel like the
glacier is dying. I have seen photos of the Snowbird, it's tell-tale Nunatak (a
peak surrounded on all sides by glacier ice) jutting out of the ice like a
massive shark's tooth. I can't seem to locate the supposedly obvious feature as
we continue down to the ice. At first I am convinced that I'm mixed up, that I
had been seeing photos from another glacier, or perhaps the glacier wraps into
the valley below, out of view, and we are seeing only a small portion of
it.

Snowbird Glacier from the Pass

We cross the ice, exploring
a number of features as we go. Crevasses, though small, glow with a blue light
from within. A large moulin catches our attention for longer than we should be
milling about with so far to walk today. I glance now and again at a close by
peak that seems to have another glacier coming in from the other side. The
mountain looks rather familiar, but I can't place how.

Moulins of the Snowbird Glacier

We wander farther down,
speculating based on the map where we should begin hiking up the boulders to
our right. Somewhere above us lies the Snowbird Hut, rebuilt in 2010 by the
American Alpine Club as a backcountry ski shelter. We search for an easy path
up among the boulders and something further down the glacier catches my eye.
Oh, I found the trail... A massive red arrow, painted straight onto a
boulder the size of a small house, points the way.

If only there were a trail marker here to point the way...

I'm not sure how I feel
about such markings. On one hand, at least it would be hard for people to get
lost looking for the hut, but on the other it seems a distracting and
unnecessary break from the natural, a reminder that even the Alaskan wilderness
is no escape from humanity's reach. But then again, the 12-person bunkhouse on
top of the mountain is pretty unnatural as well.

and the extra tall mailbox

We will bypass this hut
today, in favor of tackling more mileage early on, but curiosity demands we
check it out since we are already so close. We step inside to find stoves,
pots, pans, fuel, eatery, and sleeping mats ready for the unprepared traveler.
It seems odd to me to have such things waiting for you above a glacier six
miles from a parking area. Of course, if caught out in an unexpected storm, it
would be the most welcome of sights. Speaking of sights, the view out the
massive bay windows rivals that of any multi-million dollar home I've ever
seen. The iconic view of the Snowbird is laid out before us in panorama. The
designers of the hut were wise to dedicate a quarter of the building to
windows. We waste plenty of time there staring out at the scene.

It is only here in the hut that
my mind collects the obvious details of the glacier before me. The Nunatak I
had seen in the photos is no longer. It is merely a ridge and sharp peak. No
longer does the glacier flow around the tooth-shaped point, the recent and
rapid melting has split the upper glacier in two, flowing on either side of a
new ridge line. Photos from the hut confirm that only a few years earlier the
ice wrapped all the way around the stunning rock feature. Now I am heartbroken
staring out at the beauty in front of me. It is clear, now, that this is a
dying glacier. It is smaller than any glacier I have visited thus far, I can
see almost the entire glacier from the hut, and its only snow covering is just
beyond the former Nunatak, high on the ridge. I can see from here that it is
shallow snow, this year's snow. It's still early in the season and I doubt it
will make it through the summer. That would mean a certain and rapid death for
the glacier. With no snow surviving the summers, there would be nothing to
contribute to the mass of the ice. With no mass being added, the glacier will
soon stop flowing, if it hasn't already. I wonder how long it will be before
the Snowbird is declassified as a glacier. In my mind it is only a matter of
time.

Iconic view from Snowbird Hut of the glacier

I try to snap out of such
depressing thoughts though, and enjoy my time here in the moment. We wander out
behind the hut, beholding yet another miraculous view. A massive U-shaped
valley leads into the distance. It's at least 2,000 vertical feet to where the
river winds through the grass in the bottom. The valley was carved out by what
is now the Snowbird Glacier at a time when there was much more snow than could
melt in a summer. This is the product of ice ages. The once mighty Snowbird
would have cut the valley deeper and deeper as it flowed through the Talkeetna
Mountains over thousands of years. The same process that cut the canyon in
front of us is still in play today, each and every glacier continues to grind
away at the rock below and around it, carving out its own scenic wonders that
are yet unimagined.

Behind the Snowbird Hut

I tell Joe I'm glad we
don't have to walk down through that massive, steep valley
before pulling out the map. Oh. Well, nevermind. We start down toward that
valley.

Down we go!

2,100 vertical feet of
boulder hoping, scree skiing, and moss sliding bring us nearly to the river. We
try to escape thick brush by skirting the side of the valley wall, slipping and
sliding on wet moss and thick grasses on the slope. We are unable to avoid the
entirety of the thick alder, and are at times lost within, yelling at non-existent,
or at least non-visible, bears to stay out of our way and not eat us. Much of
the bushwhacking is done with bear spray at the ready, aimed in front of me as
I walk through. That is, when I don't need both hands to fight my way through
the alder thickets in order to move forward. This is some true Alaskan
bushwhacking now!

Trails...? Yeah we have none of those here.

Upon our return from hike,
a friend will tell me a story of a group of people attempting the Bomber
Traverse. They passed very close to our current location near the bottom of the
valley, miscalculated the route, and continued down stream instead of turning
right into the next valley and climbing toward the pass. They took the following
valley instead, more than 5 miles too late, not understanding how they went wrong.
An aircraft finally located them days later along the Kashwitna River some 20
miles off course. We manage to avoid this mistake and turn into the adjacent
valley, immediately beginning to climb in elevation once more. Before the end
of the night we will have ascended nearly to the level we just came down from,
gaining, losing and now regaining nearly 3,000 feet of elevation. For now,
though, the route gradually slopes upward and we come into view of an actual
trail for the first time since Snowbird Pass that morning. The trail soon leads
into more alder thickets and, from the looks of the berry-filled scat dotting
the path, it gets used more frequently by bear than by human. More “Hey Bear!”
yelling and pointing the bear spray at nothing, and luckily finally clears into
an open valley.

At long last, our goal comes
into view in the distance: The Bomber Hut. The small silver structure sits
neatly atop a green hill still far in the distance on the opposite side of the
wide, cold river. We search for a decent place to cross over, but find nothing.
By the time we pass the hut we have still seen nothing for a crossing that
doesn't risk a swim, and we decide to turn up the next valley to visit the
Bomber Glacier before we make camp. We're tired and sore already, but if we go
now, we can sleep in and still have plenty of time to explore one or two more
glaciers tomorrow. The new plan is to find a way across the bit of river coming
in from the right, from the Bomber Glacier, leave the majority of our weight
there, hike to the glacier, then worry about the second, smaller stream
crossing on our return to the hut.

The first crossing is a
success, and almost as soon as the ice comes into view ahead we can see the
namesake of the glacier.

Bomber Glacier - The wreckage can be seen about in the middle of the ice to the right of Joe

Back in November, 1957 a B-29
Superfortress bomber was flying low through a storm, out on a routine mission
but 27 miles off course. The crew was likely unaware of the mountain in front
of them, suspecting they were flying through an open valley when the plane
quite abruptly came to a stop on an unnamed glacier at 5,600 ft. 6 of 10
crewmembers died on impact, but the remaining 4 would be rescued by helicopter.
The mangled aluminum aircraft was left on site, too expensive to fly out.
Glacial processes further disassembled the aircraft and have now spread debris
over almost the entire glacier and into the river of meltwater below.

Wheel from wrecked Bomber

Bomber Glacier Wreckage

More wreckage of the Bomber Glacier

Plaque put in place on the wreckage

Joe and I
rather enjoyed exploring the bits and pieces of airplane, imagining what this
was for and what that could belong to. It was quickly getting darker, more from
an approaching cloud than from actual night, but it was also getting late. We
turned back to our packs and arrived at the Bomber Hut just in time for an
11:00 p.m. dinner. We had walked upwards of 12.5 miles. Breaks and shenanigans
included, we had been at it for over 14 hours the first day.

We shared
our cozy accommodation with two couples, 3 of the 4 people already in bed
(though claiming not to be asleep) by the time we showed up. The hut
officially sleeps 4 in the loft above the table, so we moved a bench aside and
slept on the floor - happy to not be using our backup plan (curled up under a
tarp outside). Lucky for us, the other 4 had decided to sleep in the next
morning as well, and no one rose until after 10 a.m. Now about half way through
the required trail distance, Joe and I knew we could take our time for the next
two days. The others quizzed us about getting to the Bomber wreckage, saying
they had no crampons for proper ice travel, but were interested in seeing the
wreckage. Afterward, they planned to stay another night in the Bomber hut and
head on to either the Mint Hut (they way Joe and I were going) or to the Dnigi
Hut, but seemed only moderately concerned about the fact that they all lacked
any extra traction for crossing ice, an inevitability of either route. We told
them accessing the wreckage required a good bit of ice travel, though not any
more than any conceivable way out from here, and they headed off to explore the
bomber.

Finally
coaxing our knees into continuing with the journey some time around noon, Joe
and I made good time getting up to the base of the PennyRoyal Glacier. The
planned route took us up the sloped glacier ice and above it to a small pass
called the Backdoor Gap. It was an infamously narrow and crazy steep section of
the route, but the only real option to connect us with a trail returning to the
truck. All we had to do was get to the Gap, and just down the other side was
tonight's goal: the Mint Hut. From there, the final day would require only a
straightforward, 9 mile downhill walk to the parking lot. For now, we focused
on finding a way to the Backdoor Gap.

PennyRoyal Glacier reflected in small pond

The
glacier in front of us started out with a gradual slope, steepening as it went
higher, then it was covered in snow for the last few hundred feet below the gap.
We comfortably walked the first few hundred feet of sun cooked, flat ice before
stopping to put on our crampons. As I secured the last strap I heard something
sliding, like Joe had thrown something very large across the glacier, and as I
looked up I saw a massive boulder sliding from it's glacier table perch,
grinding away a layer of ice and coming to rest 20 feet from where it started.
Glacier tables are created when a large boulder comes to rest on the ice. As
the sun melts down the glacier with its warm light, the boulder shields the ice
it rests on top of. Melting much slower than the ice in direct sunlight, the
shaded ice becomes a bit of a pillar, taking the weight of the rock for as long
as it can hold. Eventually, something will break or melt to the point that
gravity will coax the rock from its perch to begin the process over again. In
this way, a boulder can slowly slip and slide its way around the glacier. I've
occasionally pushed over what I thought were 'large' glacier tables, maybe
4 or 5 feet in diameter. When out on a glacier with clients, these perched
boulders pose a safety risk, and guides take great pleasure in taking
preventative measures of pushing them over, at the risk of looking very silly
to unknowing clients every time a boulder refuses to be pushed aside. The
boulder on the PennyRoyal Glacier was easily the biggest table rock I've ever
witnessed move, and it was 30 feet away from me! It seemed impossible that such
a behemoth could move so easily, but large scrapings in the newly exposed ice
made it clear where the boulder had started only moments before. I was
disproportionately excited to have witnessed the actually very common event. I
made Joe sit next to it for scale.

3 images of a large table rock that slid off its pedestal

After the
excitement of the boulder slide, we made it almost nowhere before I spotted
another boulder almost the size of the first. This one was still high on its
perch, two feet above the surrounding ice. The table’s stand, as it were, was
split in half by a river running across the surface of the glacier, making the
whole thing look very unstable. It was almost ready to go. I set my camera to
record video, and captured around 45 minutes of Joe and I looking very silly
trying many times to push over a massive boulder. When it wouldn't budge, I
swung my ice axe at the thin column of ice until I was uncomfortable standing
close enough to hit it with the tool. More leg and back straining trying to
push it over. Still nothing. Next I tried throwing water from the stream up at
the stand, thinking only a tiny bit of melting would be needed to coax the
boulder down from its high point. Still nothing. In the end, we were defeated,
having spent nearly an hour in total trying to push over a rock that weighed
more than a bus. We joked that it would probably fall over before we got out of
eyesight.

Large, perfectly balanced table rock

Looking out over the PennyRoyal Glacier

Finally
continuing toward the Backdoor Gap, we walked up the ice to the snow line. This
particular glacier didn't seem to have many large crevasses, but it still made
me nervous walking across a glacier when I couldn't see the ice. Slowly pushing
forward, utilizing my ice axe to prod the ice below the snow before each step,
we made slow progress up the last section of glacier. Finally, near the
top, there were suddenly footprints everywhere, the rest of the hikers clearly
picking the more direct, but steeper route straight toward the pass from the
middle of the glacier. I felt much more at ease with so much traffic through
this section, but continued to check where I was stepping. Once we reached the
rock, there was a rope draped down from above, presumably anchored to something
relatively strong somewhere above us.

Steep slope up to the Backdoor Gap

Joe led the way up and gave a joyous holler from the top of
the Gap. I hadn't even thought about what the other side might look like, but
it brought into view the next massive valley, more rocky peaks, and a few more
glaciers, including the Mint, which we would nearly miss in the thick fog that
night. We had lunch in the sun on top of the narrow gap, between two
breathtaking views.

Looking down into the Gold-Mint Valley with the Mint Glacier on the high left.

The perfect lunch spot!

Quite
rapidly, a cloud rolled in, casting a shadow over us and pushing us to continue
on our way. From the top, we had spotted the Mint hut in the valley below. It
was a bright red and green building, less than a mile away on the map, but
1,300 feet below us. Down we went, boulder hopping the entire way. Literally
hoping for a good portion of the descent, we lost 1,000ft elevation in under a
half mile of horizontal travel. It seemed like hours of knee grinding, ankle
twisting drops down boulders of varying stability. We spaced ourselves out to
avoid rolling boulders on top of one another, remarking about how glad we were to
be going down this section, not up. All the way down the long steep hill, the
fog followed behind. It lowered as we did, always seeming to be right behind
us. Before we reached the hut, it began to rain, and still the cloud lowered,
hovering just overhead as we stepped inside to unload our packs and make
dinner.

Inside the Mint Hut

We ate
inside and milled around a bit. It was still early, by our standards. We talked
about the next day. We both felt that it would be uncomfortable to hike up to
the Mint the next morning if it were raining, adding extra distance and wetness
to our walk out. I think I was half joking when I said we should just go now,
but Joe said, yeah let's do it. So we emptied our bags to the basics: Cameras,
some snacks, layers, crampons and axes. The rain had subsided to a drizzle as
we stepped out of the hut, no problem for our rain jackets. We had seen the
glacier and, sort of, seen the way to get there from the pass above. With GPS
and a decent trail heading out from the hut, we should have no problem getting
there and back. As the steep trail above the hut leveled out it got more and
more faint, splitting into many trails going every which direction.

Fog settled across us like
a blanket dropped over our heads...

Thick fog over the Mint Glacier

... The fog began lifting
almost as soon as we stepped onto the ice, as if it had given a great effort to
conceal the glacier from us and was now relaxing, having lost to our
stubbornness. It refused to give up entirely though, keeping close and glowing
above the white ice as we explored the gentle slope and often rocky surface of
the glacier.

We exited
the glacier half a mile downhill from where we began, through thick glacial mud
the consistency of quicksand, but luckily only deep enough to cover the tops of
our boots. Hopping across the river of meltwater coming straight out of the
Mint Glacier, we made our way back toward the hut. A few minor corrections from
the GPS kept us from walking down the wrong slope and avoiding a very long
night, and we found the trail in short order, returning to the hut, once again,
after 11:00 p.m.

Mint Hut in Hatcher Pass Wilderness

The
morning would see sunshine all around, and we couldn't resist returning to see
the Mint in the morning light. We retraced our steps, and were completely
baffled at our route the day before. We laughed at our delusional orange line
squiggled around the GPS screen, circumnavigating the lake that we had entirely
failed to see through the fog. At one point, standing on the line the GPS had
traced the night before, I could have spit into the deep blue lake from where
we had walked. Three separate times, our line crossed within 20 feet of the
lake's water.

The massive lake we somehow missed the night before in the fog

We were
dumbfounded that we had not seen any hint of the lake when we had walked so
close to it three different times. Here in the daylight it seemed impossible
that we couldn't have seen something so obvious and so close. The fog had been
absolutely debilitating to travel through. All sense of direction and distance
gone. The path was so easy to find, how could we nearly have been lost is such
easily navigable terrain? Laughing at ourselves, we walked around the 'cliff'
we had stumbled into the night before, a short rocky section we would have
missed entirely if we were a few feet to the low side, opposite where we turned
uphill the night before.

Many other glaciers surrounded us

Mint Glacier Panorama

Back down toward the hut. The valley below Joe is our 8 mile walk out

A short
walk back to the hut left us only one thing left to do now. The walk out would
be a "steep" half mile or so, followed by about 8 boring miles of
easy, gravel trail all the way back to the truck. We were left with plenty of
time to reflect on the last three days:

Three days
totaling four glaciers, 30+ miles, three mountain huts, and two steep passes,
with far too much boulder hopping, scree sliding, moss slipping, and alder
bashing to quantify. That pretty much sums up a trip through the Alaskan
Wilderness!

Return to Mint Hut

The way out - down Gold-Mint Valley back to the trailhead

Afterthoughts:The Bomber
Traverse is an excellent introduction to travel in the Alaskan Wilderness. The
route we took is recommended in four days, adding a night in the Snowbird hut
that we bypassed the first day. However, other shorter (or longer) routes are
possible as well, utilizing the Bomber Pass, near the wreckage, among other
options. It is recommended that you have crampons, or for some options later in
summer Microspikes or Yaktrax may be sufficient if you know what you're doing.
So long as the snow is completely melted (it wasn't yet on PennyRoyal), any
deadly glacier obstacles will be plainly visible.

Contact DCrane

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* Warning *

Glaciers are a dangerous place to those that do not know the risks and have the proper skills to navigate them safely. Do not attempt travel on or near any glacier without proper skills or an experienced guide.